


People are Strange

by whiteduck6



Category: Z Nation (TV)
Genre: Autism, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, autistic 10k
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-14
Updated: 2018-09-14
Packaged: 2019-07-12 09:25:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15992378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whiteduck6/pseuds/whiteduck6
Summary: The only constant after the apocalypse is that people are still confusing.





	People are Strange

**Author's Note:**

> back at it again with another autism fic
> 
> also, the title is taken from the Doors song!

The only constant after the apocalypse is that people are still confusing. 

Most jokes still fly right over 10k’s head, he still doesn’t pick up on subtle shifts of tone other people do and people still tell him to shut his trap for a minute when he starts rambling about guns. 

Well, Murphy is the main contributor of the last part. 

Someone always tells Murphy to shut up, though, usually Doc. It doesn’t really bother 10k, not as much as it probably should. It’s good to keep himself in check. 

Being like him in the apocalypse can certainly be a weakness.

The first time that was brought to everyone’s attention was the time Addy pulled a door open on rusted hinges, the shrieking of metal on metal bouncing off every wall in the building, and 10k was near catatonic for the rest of the day. 

He was grateful they’d left Murphy behind on that mission. By the time they got back to the others, he was able to force a word or two out of his throat, claiming that he was tired or some other bullshit excuse. 

He couldn’t even work out the nervous energy like he normally would, now that he was with people. 

He found ways around it. He cleaned his gun obsessively. He counted and recounted bullets, scratched tallies of how many zees he had killed into every surface imaginable and ran his fingers over the marks, the subtle grooves washing tension out of him. 

It’s been a long day when it finally tips over the precipice into too much. 

They’ve been on the road all day. 10k’s usually in the back of the truck but it’s raining, and he hates water on his face almost as much as he hates the scrutiny that comes with being in the body of the truck, but the water will lead to an overload much faster than the constant eye on him in the truck.

So, he curls into himself, pressing his back up against the door of the truck, and taps out piano melodies on the barrel of his gun. It was the only instrument he learned before the apocalypse happened. 

A few hours in, his legs are aching, and his whole body feels stiff. He briefly considers taking apart his gun and cleaning it right here — that’s his cure-all for if he’s feeling overwhelmed — but looks to his right and sees Mack, then Murphy, and decides it wouldn’t be terribly wise. 

They’re both men who like their space. 

He must fidget around a few too many times because finally Murphy barks at him, “Sit still, will you, kid?” And he freezes, making sure he’s not looking right at Murphy, because he’s chaotic and chaotic is the last thing he needs right now. 

“Lay off him,” Doc says from the front, “we’ve been driving a long time. We should maybe take a break.”  
“I need to stretch my legs,” Roberta mutters, pulling over on the side of the road and turning off the car. 10k doesn’t leave the car, but instead waits for everyone else to get out, then stretches his legs across the bench seat of the truck and bends over, wrapping his fingers around his toes. After far too short a time, Mack opens the door behind him and taps him on the shoulder blade. 10k flinches away instinctively but quickly sits up and turns to look at him.

“You gotta take a turn in the back,” he says, jabbing a thumb at Cassandra and Addy, who are soaked to the bone. “Addy wants to warm up a little.”

10k bites his tongue because he knows it’s polite to give up your seat for a girl, and his forces himself into the rain and crouches awkwardly in the trunk bed because he wants as little of himself to get wet as possible. He takes his gun with him and clutches it like a lifeline, even as Cassandra gives him a weird look. 

“You don’t want to go in?” He asks as rain starts to fall on him.

“I love the rain,” Cassandra says, running a hand through her dripping hair and wringing it out onto the ground. “It’s so refreshing. It’s the closest we can get to a shower these days.”

A drop of rain lands in his eye and he flinches so violently he falls back onto his ass. So much for keeping his clothes dry. 

Cassandra snickers, not unkindly, but doesn’t say anything. 10k pulls his scarf up onto his head to try and keep some of the rain out. 

Once they actually get moving, it’s so much worse. 

The rain that was just cold and uncomfortable before cuts neat lines down his face, shoving ice under any exposed skin and making his clothes cling to him uncomfortably. He closes his eyes to keep the rain out of them, but he can still feel every long trail down his face.

It’s not even particularly cold out, so, all in layers, he starts sweating under them. He can’t escape it. 

After far too long a time — he almost broke down and started doing something weird like flapping his hands or humming, that’s how long it was — they finally stop when Roberta says this looks like a good building to spend the night.

He can’t get inside fast enough. 

He makes a beeline for the nearest changing room — they’re settling in some kind of clothing store, which he supposes is probably useful, but he’s worn the same clothes for so long that he can’t imagine trying to break in something new. 

He peels off his wet clothes and drapes them over the wall, wrapping himself in a blanket he keeps in his bag. It’s soft blue fleece, and he’s had it since before the apocalypse. He doesn’t bring it out much anymore — can’t risk having to leave quickly and leaving it behind — but he needs it right now.

After a few minutes of wrapping himself as tightly as he can and crouching on the floor, rocking back and forth a little, he still feels like he wants to crawl out of his skin. He presses his hands over his ears when he hears someone talking, and it’s only when the curtain to his dressing room is ripped open that he realizes someone was talking to him. 

It’s Mack. 10k peels his hands away from his ears even though every word feels like a zombie trying desperately to claw out his eardrums, and tries to focus on what Mack’s saying.

“—so if you need new clothes now would be the time. You okay?”

Words are stuck in his throat right now, so 10k makes some sort of humming noise and nods.

“Just cold, huh?”

10k nods again and thanks his lucky stars that Mack is just asking him yes or no questions. 

“I’ll leave you to it, then. Want anything?”

10k shakes his head, wanting nothing more than to drape a zombie corpse over himself to press out some of the stress rippling under his skin right now. He’s done it before, if he’s having a panic attack, or if it gets really bad, if he really needs the weight. It would probably draw questions if he did it here, though. 

So he forces himself under the little bench and curls into a ball, covering his ears and humming very quietly so it’s the only sound he can hear.

He wouldn’t be able to do this if he was alone, and for that, he’s incredibly grateful that he ran across Roberta and the others. 

The curtain swings open _again_ and 10k scrunches his eyes shut. He’s still self-aware enough to know that it must be really bad if he’s getting light sensitivity. 

He feels the vibrations on the floor as someone — someone heavy, a man — takes a few steps in and then stops. He opens his eyes the tiniest amount to see Doc’s boots. He takes his hands off his ears. 

“You alright?” Doc asks, very softly. 10k doesn’t know if Doc knew someone like him before the apocalypse, but he certainly seems to know what to do when he’s like this. 

“Hm-hmm,” 10k affirms, rhythmically tapping his spine against the wall behind him. 

“Mack said you were cold, but you seem alright to me. You need anything?”

It takes 10k a few moments, but he manages to force out “Something heavy.”

Doc gives him a little bit of a strange look but doesn’t ask any questions. “Like a chair?”

“L-like a blanket,” 10k says. He used to have one, but he had to leave it when he and his dad ditched their house. It was too heavy, and took up too much space. 

“Like, um,” Doc seems to think for a moment. “Would a bunch of denim do? I think that’s the best we got.”

10k doesn’t like denim. The texture against his skin is like sandpaper. If he’s got his fleece between his skin and the denim, he should be okay. He nods.

“I’ll go see what I can get,” Doc says, leaving and closing the curtain behind him. 10k makes an effort to pull himself out from under the bench, because if Doc is going to the kindness of looking for a bunch of jeans, he should at least try to make it easy to drape over him. 

Doc comes back a few minutes later, and 10k almost misses him, because he’s spaced out listening to his own breaths. He shakes himself out of his reverie as Doc looks over him. “What do you want done with these?”

“Just, uh,” 10k doesn’t really know how to explain this to someone who’s never done it before without sounding like a complete weirdo. “Just. Put ‘em down. On me.” 

His sentences are fragmented because he’s still having a little bit of trouble with words, but Doc still doesn’t ask questions and unceremoniously dumps the pile of jeans onto his lap. The weight isn’t a lot — certainly not compared to his weighted blanket from before — but it eases some of the tension in his shoulders immediately.

“Thanks,” he mutters, because he knows it’s polite.

“No worries,” Doc says, and exits the little changing room. 10k draws his knees up to his chest, the denim pressing into his stomach and ribs, the sensations grounding him, slowly bringing him back down from that state of overstimulation.

—

Doc doesn’t bring it up until after dinner that night, when 10k has composed himself enough to eat with them. His clothes are still wet so he wears his blanket like a skirt, wrapped around his waist with one end tucked into itself, which gets no small amount of ribbing from Murphy.

“‘Least I’m not out here, covered in dirt and god-knows what else,” he snaps back, and the air in the room lightens as Murphy scoffs.

After they’ve finished, Doc pulls him aside. “I’m not gonna go askin’ for specifics, here,” he says, “but you mind tellin’ me what that was, earlier?”

_Jesus._ Of course this was going to come up.

“Oh, uh, it’s not really anything to worry about,” 10k waves a hand dismissively. “It’s just . . .”

He looks around for the others. 

“Uh, you know. The autism thing.”  
Doc raises his eyebrows and makes a gesture. 10k stands there like an idiot for a few moments until Doc raises his eyes and huffs out a “what was that?”

“Well, uh. I’ve. I’m autistic. D-did you . . .?”

This conversation never gets less awkward.

“Don’t see how that’s got any standing on why you had crunched yourself under a bench,” Doc shrugs, and 10k nearly runs away because holy crap, he can tell Doc is trying to be supportive but it’s just going to mean more explanation for him. 

“It’s just a . . . just a thing. That I do. Sometimes. And it’s because of the . . . you know,” 10k makes some kind of gesture. 

“Ah,” Doc said, doing that old man thing where he folds his hands over his stomach and sort of circles his thumbs around each other. “I get it.”

10k nearly turns on his heel and walks away, because he is _absolutely not equipped_ to deal with this right now, but Doc grabs his arm and 10k wrenches his arm away but turns back to look at him. 

“Listen,” Doc says, “I guess I don’t get it. But I’ll try to understand. You’re a good kid, kid.”

10k feels a smile twitch at the corners of his lips. “Thanks,” he mutters, not meeting Doc’s eyes. “But don’t go spreading this around, ‘kay?”

“‘Course,” Doc says, “just tell me if you need anything, alright?”

“Yeah,” 10k says, turning to walk away. He has to walk past Murphy on the way to get to his clothes.

“Still wearin’ the skirt, huh? You enterin’ a beauty pageant?”

10k flips him off. 

Maybe he’ll tell the others at some point. Murphy’s not a bad guy. He’s . . . brash. And set in his ways. But if he can get the others, Mack and Addy and Roberta and Cassandra, on board, then he’s got a better chance with Murphy.

He feels hopeful.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading! I know Z nation isn't a terribly big fandom but I really like the show and 10k is such an interesting character, I had to write something for him. I love constructive criticism so please feel free to leave it!


End file.
